


Obviously

by effystonem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effystonem/pseuds/effystonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock walks the edge of a high cliff, sure in his footing. He is so high up the air is hard to breath, and launching himself off this cliff seems like a better alternative to asphyxiation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obviously

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of suicide and drug abuse may be triggering. Don't read if you think it will upset you.

Sherlock Holmes  _aches._

He aches to know John Watson as intimately as an author knows his book, he aches to learn John's body and read it like a map. He wants to dip his fingers in red paint and expore until John's skin is scarlet.

In his mind he can  _feel_ John, sighing into his skin, leaving his scent lingering in Sherlock's hair. These are the thoughts that originally distract him and eventually consume him, leaving him spent and staring at the ceiling longing to hold John in his arms and fall asleep to the swell of his breath. And at the same time, while Sherlock is crushed with this unrelenting emptiness, John smiles at his wife, whispers in her ear, laughs at what she says. 

Sherlock has nightmares that wake him in the middle of the night and leave him gasping and shattered and desperate to just  _make it all stop._ He slips back into drugs, and John doesn't notice. He's preparing his house for a baby and relishing in domestic bliss with Mary, and if he notices Sherlock's red eyes and unshaven face he pretends not to. Sherlock knows it will only get worse once the baby is born, and he doesn't think he can handle it.

_(because you chose her and not me)_

Would John notice if Sherlock simply slipped away in the night, ending his suffering with a carefully calculated overdose? Would he be wracked with sobs at the sight of Sherlock's body and refuse to leave the house? Sherlock preferred not to think about the answer. Drowning himself in bittersweet fantasy was somehow less painful than admitting what he knew to be true. 

_(you chose her)_

Sherlock walks the edge of a high cliff, sure in his footing. He is so high up the air is hard to breath, and launching himself off this cliff seems like a better alternative to asphyxiation. At least the former would be on his own terms, and he could end things before they got too bad. Sherlock thinks about it, seriously, for a long time. He wonders if the world would suffer without him. If Lestrade would need him, if Molly would cry for him, if Mycroft would miss him. 

_(and not me)_

_  
_Molly cares for Sherlock. She worries about him. She is busy falling in love with Lestrade, as Sherlock can obviously deduce, but she makes time for him every day. She drops by and has tea with Mrs. Hudson, discussing in low voices their shared concern for Sherlock. She comes over in the afternoon and finds Sherlock in bed, staring at the ceiling, trapped in his own mind, and she draws him a bath and washes his hair while he stares blankly at the wall. She wraps him in warm clothes and makes him eat, she looks to find his drugs but of course she never finds them. On particularly bad nights when Sherlock's brain is exploding and his nightmares are unbearable, Molly sits in his chair while Sherlock lies on the sofa staring blankly at the dim glow of the telly.

_(it's always you, john watson)_

_  
_Biweekly on Saturdays Sherlock paints on an arrogant smirk and forces himself into nice clothes and goes to John and Mary's for tea. He asks them about their life. They don't ask about his. When one of them does ask about one of his cases or has he got a new flatmate yet, Sherlock manages to deflect the conversation back to them. They don't notice. They're happy, content, in love. Settled.

_(boring)_

_  
_One morning Sherlock wakes up from a restless sleep. The digital alarm clock on his nightstand reads 5:15 AM. Its' green glow is the only light in the room. Sherlock sits up, he pauses, and then he stands up. He leaves Baker Street, not making any attempt to be quiet. Mrs. Hudson doesn't wake up, anyway. He's still in his dressing gown. He takes a cab and directs the cabbie to John's address. The cabbie speaks to him but Sherlock can barely hear over the drone of his own mind. He stares out the window and at his own reflection and at the moon and waits to arrive.

He doesn't ring the doorbell or knock on the door. Instead, he calls Mary. He has plans for what he will say to her.

 _Sherlock?_ She sounds alert but still rough with sleep. She must be expecting an emergency.

Sherlock tries to speak but no words come out.  _Can I come in?_ He asks, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to sound choked up. 

Mary hangs up. Within seconds, a light turns on downstairs. The door opens. She looks concerned but soft, with her hair mussed from sleep and a t-shirt covering her growing stomach.

 _Sherlock, what is it?_ She leads him to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. He sits at the table.

 _I-_ he starts. Mary looks at him and a wall inside of him crumbles. He cries, his sharp features nowhere to be seen. Mary sits down.

 _I know,_ she says quietly. They sit in silence until Sherlock stops crying.

 _How?_ he asks her.

_You aren't the only one around here that can make deductions._

_Does John...?_

_No._

Sherlock sighs, relieved.  _I'm sorry, Mary. I want you to be happy. I want him to be happy._

 _I know,_ she repeats soothingly. She puts a hand on his back and rubs in large circles. She looks geniunely, truly sad for him. 

 _Sherlock..._ Mary pauses.  _Sherlock, I think you should know, John and I aren't as happy as we seem._

Sherlock looks at her and waits for her to go on. 

_In fact, if it weren't for the baby, I don't know if we would still be together._

Sherlock hardens.  _Why are you telling me this?_ He thinks she's trying to make him feel guilty. 

 _Because,_ she says simply,  _I don't think it was ever really me. I love John, and he loves me, but not..._

She trails off.

Sherlock's question goes unspoken.

_Not the way he loves you._

_He won't leave you,_ Sherlock assures her, ignoring the last statement. He might have just refused to believe it. 

 _I know,_ she sighs,  _he's too wonderful for his own good. I've talked about it. At him, mostly._ Rather than to him.  _I don't want to do this just for the baby's sake. I think it's better that we part as friends before the baby is born._

 _But he doesn't think that,_ Sherlock fills in, staring at his own hands. 

 _No,_ Mary says softly.  _He'll come around. He enjoys this pretending about as much as you do._

A pregnant pause. Sherlock takes a few shaky breaths. 

_He loves me?_

Mary smiles sadly, as if out of pity.

_Obviously._


End file.
